~*~
Kwestor trod the same path his employer traveled ten minutes earlier, but, being on foot, he could go a bit faster. The breeze picked up, stirring the dust serving as the primary construction material for the road. Ahead, he could see the abandoned gond on the side of the road foraging some scraggly perennial mock cabbage bushes, its four-foot long, muscular, prehensile tongue snapping up one small green globe after another.
“Oh, wonderful,” he mumbled to himself. He knew the effect mock cabbages could have on the gond digestive system. He would need to make a point of not walking behind the beast for a few days.
The gond seemed not to notice the prince’s fearsome war cry. Kwestor, however, turned his head to the source of the sound. “His royal Highness probably found a vicious horde of evil chickens or something,” he mumbled. “Well, I better go help him before they peck him to death.”
His assessment changed with a clang of steel on steel. Armed chickens? The ranger dropped the limp body of the small bird he had managed to shoot minutes earlier, bolted to the crest of the hill, and stopped.
He took in the scene before him. His employer sprawled on the ground, motionless in front of a small, wood plank shack. A muscular young man in chain mail stood over him, banging on the flimsy door with his fist. A sheathed long sword hung at his waist.
The warrior shouted outside the shabby structure. “Are you sure you don’t have any money?”
Kwestor removed his cloak and strung his bow.
A sobbing reply came from within. “No, they took everything we had.”
He drew an arrow from his quiver.
“Everything?”
“Yes!”
He pulled the bowstring to his cheek.
“So, you have no money at all?”
“None!”
He targeted the man’s back.
“Well, that’s just awful. Do you want some?”
The ranger lowered his bow and raised an eyebrow. Bandits, as a rule, did not ask such questions. If this guy sought to be some sort of thief, he seriously misinterpreted the training manual.
Kwestor made a quick tactical assessment. He figured he could spare a little time to see how this curious turn of events would play out. After all, the prince appeared to be still alive and relatively undamaged. Although he lay unconscious, Kwestor saw no spreading pool of blood, which normally accompanies a serious battle injury. And if dead, well, nothing could be done for him anyway. The ranger did not think the prince represented one of humanity’s worst examples, and despite his reluctance to do so, he found himself growing fond of the boy. He would help him if he could, although, technically speaking, the job only included his services as a guide. A clause for swordplay did not appear in their original agreement, so he felt no contractual obligation to do anything particularly heroic.
“Do you want some?” the man asked again, after a prolonged silence from the shack.
“Some what?” came the confused reply.
The fighter paused, seemingly considering the question. “Money. If the bandits took everything, you’ll need some money to buy more chickens, and, uh, potatoes, and, uh, other stuff.”
Kwestor made no effort to conceal himself. Either the fighter did not notice him standing there or he did not care. Probably the former since he seemed focused on the shack.
More prolonged silence emanated from the shed.
“You want to give us money?” The voice sounded a bit louder and less anxious, even hopeful.
The burly fighting man scratched his head as if mildly confused. After a moment or two, he replied, “Uh, well, you’ll need some won’t you?”
“I suppose. I mean, yes, we certainly could use some.”
The fighter shifted his position and, after some fumbling among his clothes, produced a small, leather pouch. It jingled with the unmistakable sound of coins. He carefully worried loose the drawstring to open the bag, moving his lips as a probing finger stirred the contents.
“Would three gold-trees, five silver-fruit and, uh, seven copper-seeds be enough?”
Kwestor heard a low groan from the prince and glimpsed a brief twitch of his hand. Good. He still lived. The scout breathed a restrained sigh of relief. This meant, among other things, that he still had a job.
“Three g-g-g-gold?” stammered the voice on the other side of the door.
Three gold pieces might easily be more than this family could earn in an entire year—two if the gods of fortune did not smile upon them. Or were they demigods? Westgrove’s pantheon of gods, goddesses, demigods, and holy fairies created a confusing array of religious obligations and feast-day observances. Most peasants found it difficult to keep such things straight, so they left a lot of their religion to the professionals. Just a little contribution to the local priest occasionally could satisfy all of their requirements for praying, fasting, or anything else the gods might expect. Regardless, Kwestor suspected the amount mentioned represented more money than the peasant family ever saw in one place at one time before.
The fighter corrected them. “No. Three gold, five silver, and seven copper,”
A less timid and hesitantly hopeful reply came after another brief pause. “Yes, sir. That would certainly do us very well, sir.”
“Oh good, because it’s really all I can spare. You see, my mom, she’s not as young as she used to be and she can’t really work like she’d done before, and my sister can’t bring in enough money to support the family, and I need to get a present for my cousin Amy’s birthday, and… well, I just have to save most of it for other stuff.”
Kwestor unstrung his bow and returned the arrow to his quiver. The sun now sat high in the sky and some might consider it quite a pleasant day if they liked blue skies, gentle breezes, and such things. He supposed it benign enough, apart from his employer being laid out like an old rug in the dirt, of course. He spread his travel cloak out on the dry grass of the hill to make a comfortable place to sit and observe. This could take a while.
“Oh, I perfectly understand, sir,” the peasant said. “Anything you could spare would be just fine. Most generous really. Just wonderful. Greatly appreciated and all that.”
“Good,” the probably-not-a-bandit said. He carefully picked the appropriate coins from the purse and drew the drawstring tight. Back it went into the folds of his clothing. He opened his hand containing the money and recounted. Then he recounted again. And then again, this time transferring the coins from one hand to the other as he tallied each. Kwestor half expected him to take off his boots and try it one more time using his toes as counters, but the generous oaf now seemed satisfied with the result of his effort at graduate level accounting.
The fighter looked from his hand to the door and then back to his hand. “You’ll need to open the door so I can give you the money.”
Kwestor heard the rumble of several overlapping voices from within, followed by a moment of tense silence.
“Could you just wait a minute, please?” the peasant asked politely.
“Sure, I suppose.”
The mumbling voices became arguing voices. Kwestor strained and failed to follow the entire conversation, but he could pick out the words ‘idiot’, ‘dead’, and ‘gold’ each more than once.
It really did not take much imagination to figure out the major points of their discussion. They did not trust the burly man at the door, suspected he might be cleverer than he sounded, and the entire dialog represented a ruse to easily get inside, murder them all, and steal their—well—just murder them all. The other side of the debate countered this argument with three gold, five silver, and seven copper pieces. After about a minute or so, a logical solution emerged.
“Could you leave the coins there near the door and, well, just go away? Uh, please?”
The shoulders of the young fighter slumped and his head fell forward. “I suppose I could do that. I’m sure I could, really. But, are you sure? I’d be happy to help you fix up your front door, if you’d like.”
> “No, no, that’s quite all right. Actually, you see, uh, you seem very nice and all, but we’re all feeling just a bit skittish about strangers right now, and despite your kindness, you are a stranger.”
From within the shed, Kwestor heard a barely restrained chuckle, which sounded like it might have come from a young boy. “Stranger than most.”
Smack!
“Ouch!”
“Oh,” the fighter said. He sounded disappointed. “Well, if you’re sure.”
“Yes, really. No offense. I hope you understand.”
“Yeah, I understand.” He bent his knees, squatting to place the coins in a neat stack just outside the door.
“I mean, we were just robbed and terrified by a bunch of bandits this morning, so I’d expect you can imagine what we’d be feeling like just now.”
The man outside brightened noticeably. “Oh, that reminds me. I think I may have caught one of those bandits for you.”
Just then, the prince moaned again and twitched.
“Really? We noticed a brief commotion out there earlier. One of the bandits, you say?”
“Yeah, must be. He’s right here. Except for a bump on the head, I don’t think he’s even hurt much. What do you think I ought to do with him?”
The sound of more muted debate came from within. Eventually, the unseen victims’ spokesman said, “Well, I think bandits get hung by the neck but the misses says they gets their heads chopped off, and the boy thinks they’re burned at the stake. I don’t suppose we really know, not having studied the fine points of the law, you know. Whatever you think is proper, I imagine, would be just fine with us. I think the other bandits took our ax and all the rope we had, but there’s some firewood behind the house you can use if it would help.”
Kwestor decided now would be a good time to make his presence known before any acts of rural justice got started. He rose from his improvised seat, gathered his cloak, and shook it to get rid of the clinging bits of dirt and dead grass. He draped it back over his shoulders and, as a precaution, loosened his sword in its scabbard.
He started walking down the gentle hill toward the shack. “Excuse me.” He spoke loudly enough to ensure both the fighter and the peasants in the shack could hear him.
The man below looked up, turned to face the newcomer, and stepped away from the shed. He brushed his cloak to the side to clear access to his sword, although he did not draw it.
The ranger got to within about twenty feet of the other man and stopped. “I know it will be a disappointment to you all, but you really shouldn’t execute this fellow here.” He pointed to the collapsed form of the prince. “I’m afraid he isn’t a bandit, and I expect executing him would bring you all no end of trouble. I know this probably really ruins the plans you’ve been making for the rest of the day, but that’s life, after all.”
The man in chain mail said, “Huh?”
The prince groaned.
The peasants seemed to have nothing to say and said it very quietly.
“You see,” Kwestor continued, “that man over there lying in the dirt is Prince Donald.”
The other man just stared at him. Perhaps he did not know much about the royal family.
“Prince Donald of Westgrove,” Kwestor elaborated. “Third son of King Leonard and Queen Patricia, and brother of Prince Allan, Prince Robert, and Princess Chastity.”
Kwestor glanced behind the young fighter at the sound of scraping wood. Over the man’s shoulder, he saw the door of the small shed crack open. A hand darted out, snatched the coins placed just outside, and quickly disappeared as the door slammed closed again. The mentally challenged fighter did not seem to notice and continued to stare at him uncomprehendingly.
“He’s a member of the royal family,” the ranger clarified with an uncharacteristic hint of exasperation. “He lives in the castle. You know, in Greatbridge. The capital of Westgrove?”
“So, he’s not a bandit?”
“No. Sorry. Just a misguided prince.”
The fighter seemed to ponder this for a moment. He cocked his head and raised an inquiring eyebrow. “If he’s not a bandit, then why did he attack me?”
“Well you see…”
“Wait a minute! I see what’s going on here! You’re both bandits and you’re just trying to help him escape!”
The young man must have built up some mental momentum, and he seemed proud of this bit of complicated reasoning. The fairly logical conjecture surprised the experienced scout. From what he observed of the other man’s conversation with the peasants, he did not anticipate having any trouble convincing him of the prince’s identity.
Kwestor appraised the man standing before him. He appeared young, maybe about the same age as the prince, perhaps a little younger and four to six inches shorter. He bore broader shoulders, however, and he seemed sturdy. His weight might equal that of the prince. The thick travel clothing and gear made it difficult to judge.
His outfit and equipment suggested a typical mercenary or caravan guard. He wore homespun linen trousers and a shirt under a set of light mail, which ended just below his hips. His readily accessible weapons, Kwestor quickly noted, included a long sword and a couple of knives, some secured on his belt and one in a sheath sewn into one boot. An unstrung bow with a quiver, hanging on his back with the rest of his gear, seemed to complete the arsenal. A worn, gondhide backpack bulging with other belongings suggested someone accustomed to travel, and he certainly did not resemble a local. The fighter’s blue eyes with hints of gold flake were a common color for fairfolk but not often seen in this part of Westgrove. His ears, what Kwestor could see of them through the long, shaggy mane of light colored hair, held a more upswept shape than most of the tallfolk locals.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Muce.”
“You see this longbow strapped to my back, Muce.”
“Uh-huh.”
“From that rise,” he began, pointing back and a bit to the left, “I could have shot you dead before you even knew I was there. It would have been a sad way to die, young as you are and not knowing why it was you had been killed. But I could have done it and rescued the prince that way.”
“Well, I suppose, but—”
The older man interrupted. “When I first saw you banging on the shed door, I assumed you were a brigand here to rob this poor farm. That’s probably what the prince thought too, and that’s why he attacked you.”
“Yeah, but I’m not a thief.”
“But the prince couldn’t have known that, Muce.” He stated it as a simple matter of fact.
“That’s not very smart.”
This may have been one of the funniest things Kwestor ever heard. He almost smiled, taking a step toward Muce. It seemed unlikely the younger man would try anything hostile. From behind them, the prince moaned again, this time louder, and he shifted, uncurling as though trying to roll over.
“Help me with him,” Kwestor commanded. He approached the spot where the prince lay and squatted next to him to check for injuries. Muce took a similar position beside him. The ranger rolled the groaning highness over and began his examination.
“So he’s a prince, huh?”
“Yes. Normally he looks more regal.” Kwestor wiped dirt from Prince Donald’s brow with his hand, revealing a darkening bruise. A trail of drool created a smear of mud on the royal cheek. “Ask the farmer if he has some water we can have.”
The young fighter did so while Kwestor removed his own pack and dug for his medical supplies.
“They don’t have a well, but they say there’s a stream not too far in that direction.”
Kwestor did not look to see where the young man pointed. He knew the location of the stream. “No matter. There’s nothing serious here I can see. Just some scrapes and bruises.”
“It shouldn’t be too bad. I didn’t cut him.”
“Yes, I can see that.” He cradled Donald’s head in one hand, pressing lightly with the other.
“But I?
??m afraid I bopped him on the head pretty good.”
“Mmm-hmmmm”
“After I kneed him in the privates.”
“A very effective tactic.”
Kwestor made a check of arms, legs, and ribs for broken bones, finding no serious damage. “He’ll be all right. Pick him up.”
Muce bent to comply.
“Carefully,” the ranger added. “I’ll go get his gond. We can put him up on that and get him to the inn.” The Redfruit Inn, or a Redfruit Inn (every third inn, tavern and most impromptu bars consisting of a plank connecting two barrels shared the name) stood about seven miles further, in the village of Barter’s Forge. “We should be able to make it there well before nightfall.”
Kwestor sprinted up the hill to retrieve the prince’s mount. Donald would be able to ride on the beast’s wide back, even semiconscious, if they traveled slowly. This would pose no problem with the gond. At top speed, its smooth gait did not match a human’s brisk walk.
Muce grabbed the prince under the arms and pulled him to his feet. He maneuvered to get the taller man’s arm around his shoulders and put his own arm around Donald’s waist. Still dazed and sluggish, the prince managed to stumble along with Muce’s assistance.
“We’re going now,” Muce called back good-naturedly to the peasants in the shack. “It was nice meeting you.”
Chapter Two